The Five Senses
by sapereaude13
Summary: The first time she heard his voice she disliked it. What I would like to think happened the night before Bahamut. BalthierAshe. Spoilers for the whole game.
1. Hearing

The first time she heard his voice she disliked it. She heard the sound of Archadia in it, a pompous lilt that meant to subdue her people.

"Such an upstanding member of the insurgence," he had scoffed with a shrug of his shoulders. From the very start he would prove to be a challenge. But as they traveled, she slowly discovered the man behind the arrogant accent.

She grew to secretly adore the witty utterances that came from him. A teasing banter that kept spirits high in a journey fraught with danger and roadblocks at every turn. A voice like a rich honey, she longed for the syllables to pour from his mouth, filling her ears with their warmth.

"Princess." Never before had the word sounded so intoxicating, and she had spent her entire life hearing it directed at her. But from his lips it was something else. Initially she perceived an undercurrent of disdain in the way he said it. As they journeyed together, it stood as a reminder of her mission, of what lay ahead for her to reclaim.

"How soon do we leave?" Though she didn't know it then, he was leading her to a place he had fought desperately to abandon. He had even changed his name to erase Archades, to cut his ties to the past. Everything about him was shrouded in mystery. The accent of an Empire he now sought to destroy. The accent of a father who would have had him wield a blade against Dalmasca. But he ran.

"Don't give your heart to a stone." The sincerity of his plea that day continued to play over in her head. He believed she would be strong enough, the conviction in his voice urging her forward. His voice was a pillar of strength all this time, and she needed him to fight alongside her.

Their voyage back from the cataract was silent, the sacrifice of Reddas hanging over them all. The following day would see them assault Vayne's colossal vessel in the skies over her city. One final rest in Balfonheim before success or death. She shivered at the thought of never hearing his voice again.

The party stayed at the manse that night, solemnly remembering the loss of their pirate companion. As they dispersed to seek the comforts of sleep in a real bed for the first time in ages, she had to hear it again. She wanted to hear his voice directed to her and her alone. Selfish maybe, but she had things to say.

She caught him as he was ascending the stairs. "Could we speak for a moment?"

* * *

He had pegged her as some sort of aristocrat the moment he heard that affected tone in her voice. The petulance of a lone woman outnumbered by a group of soldiers thanked her rescuers by saying she would "accept such help as I find, though it be from thieves."

But a Princess? Even he hadn't gone that far in his initial assessments of the young Resistance member, but as he found himself following her to the ends of the world, he wished his mind had put it all together sooner.

A woman with a voice that quaked with strength. Even he had to admit that there was a remarkable feistiness in the sound of her every word. Each utterance was a challenge to him, and he delighted in these sorts of games.

"Then steal me. Is that so much to ask?" That night in Bhujerba had intrigued him, and he allowed her brazen demands in the cockpit of his airship to spark his curiosity. What other reason could he have for fighting at her side all this time? A woman who would be stolen by a pirate to reclaim her throne. A woman who would not sit and bide her time, but instead choose to act. The conviction and courage in every word was enough to win his allegiance. And perhaps something more.

But when he had expressed his worry for her, she had gone on the defensive. He had never seen her vulnerable, and though he wanted to warn her about the blasted nethicite, for the first time she sounded her age. And it made him realize how much she needed his help. Well, all their help actually. Wouldn't do to think anything else beyond that.

"I pray you're right," she had said, the uncertainty clouding her eyes. A voice that he knew would command thousands someday was praying for his assurances. The choice had been made at the lighthouse, and all that lay ahead was a power-hungry man in a magical floating construct.

This night he heard a peaceful sound in her voice that her melancholy nature had rarely expressed before. He nodded and followed her out onto the balcony, and they stood together overlooking the port. The sound of waves crashing against the shore filled his ears, the Balfonheim night calm despite the potential apocalypse to follow.

It almost made him laugh how the bustling city could go on with its smuggling and its drinking when in hours there would be desperate fighting in the west. He supposed it explained his own affinity for the port town. In his flight, he sought freedom, a place away from the warring and the nethicite and the social burdens. A place that would simply just live.

After a few moments, her voice again entered his ears, soft as silk brushing against his earlobes. There was the same determination and spirit, but he did not hear the Princess speaking. He discovered that he was hearing _her_ for the first time.

"I know tomorrow will be the end, although I cannot say what that end will be. But I wanted to take this moment to thank you. For everything you've done. I could never have gotten this far without your help." The words flowed like cool water, and all he wanted was to let himself drown. He'd die a happy man.


	2. Sight

He was a kaleidoscope of colors. Every time he turned his head or raised his hand, a rainbow flash of jewelry assaulted her vision. The golden threads weaved into his vest, the purest white of his shirts contrasting the dark leather of his trousers. The richness of his expressions were even more colorful. That cocky smirk seemed to enrage her and enchant her every time it settled on his face.

His appearance created such a dichotomy of feelings within her. The trousers, especially. She loved to find herself behind him on their journey, letting him lead them forward into the fray. She hated to admit that she watched the way his trousers gripped his legs and his rear.

She loved the wicked grins, the dastardly winks, the casual nods of his head. She hated when he frowned. She knew that she herself was guilty of being eternally serious, but their situation warranted that sort of behavior. It would be unbefitting of a Queen to tease and joke. It was why she loved that he did so.

He stood beside her now, and she let her eyes wander to peek at him. His arms were crossed, and he stared out at the water of the Naldoan Sea. The only light was a dim lantern hung on the balcony, and the stars in the sky above them. His face was cast in shadow, but after so many weeks of being around him, she was able to fill in the blanks well enough.

She thinks back on the day, remembering the look of disappointment and sadness as his father faded away. His handsome features were desperately trying to mask his grief. She was guilty of hiding pain like that herself, so it was immediately recognizable to her. She decides to breach the silence, and while he doesn't face her, she can just tell by the way he stands that he is paying full attention. "I am sorry about your father…"

She can see him tense at her words, shifting his weight from foot to foot and clutching his arms tighter to his chest. "Don't. Let's not talk about that right now." He shakes his head, and she sees the earrings jangle about.

She knows he is frowning. "I'm sorry." She longs for more light so she can see his face fully, but there is none.

He accepts her apology with a casual wave of his hand, and he shifts his weight again, stepping a bit closer to her. Or maybe she's imagining it.

* * *

He's seen a lot of beautiful women. Hell, his partner was probably the most striking one he'd ever laid eyes upon.

He wondered if he thought her beautiful. Pretty face, a body with soft curves and flawless skin. From a purely objective standpoint, it was easy to acknowledge that her Highness was a lovely young woman. But to acknowledge his own feelings on her appearance would be something altogether different.

The Viera had caught him staring at their royal companion on numerous occasions. He had always shrugged it off, hoping his flirtatious reputation would ease her concerns about his wandering gaze. It was hard _not_ to look at her, he argued. It wasn't every day you traveled in the company of a Princess.

He stood close to her, probably closer than he should have been. He tried to ignore the temptation to look at her, to see how she looked in the starlight. She tried to offer sympathy, and they entered an awkward silence. He finally ventures a look at her and is undone.

She is beautiful, he admits to himself. Her eyes are darkened, and her entire image is softened as his eyes try desperately to adjust to the faint lantern light. It glows a soft orange just beside her, painting shadows on her skin.

He is openly gaping at this moment as she turns to face him. Her features offer no scolding at his stares, but her eyes look down and away from his face. She seems to be staring at his feet. He takes his eyes away from her face and fixates on her collar.

She smiles at their attempts to dodge one another's eyes, and moves their conversation away from the dreaded subject of the day's losses. "If we're…what I mean to say is… When this is over, I just want you to know you are welcome to visit Rabanastre at any time."

He sees an opportunity, the earnestness in her voice almost preventing him from teasing. "Just me, Princess?" he goads her, and despite the near absence of illumination, he can tell that her face is reddening.

The sight of her struggling for words entices him. She is normally so composed; it is wonderful to see her think on her feet. "Yes. I mean no, of course not. I mean, you and Fran are both welcome."

As they stand facing one another on the balcony, he wonders where this will lead. He knows she probably only wanted to thank him for helping her, but the peaceful night and the knowledge of tomorrow's events seem to keep their feet glued in place.


	3. Scent

The air is salty, and it stings her nose as it drifts in from the sea. But as he stands before her, a scent that is uniquely his mingles with the gentle breeze. She is embarrassed at his teasing, and she tries to laugh it off with a wave of her hand.

She moves away from him to rest her hands on the cool iron railing, trying to break away from the intensity of his gaze. She inhales deeply, letting the harsh air fill her nostrils. But it only lasts a few moments before he is beside her. He leans back against the railing, looking into her face.

"Fran and I may take you up on that offer. I'd like to see more than the treasure room next time," he replies softly. She is trying desperately to identify just what scent he has.

There is the smoky hint of gunpowder, an undercurrent that settles around him like a cloak. There is the scent of leather, a more dominating aroma. But there is something else that goes beyond these scents. He notices her distraction, and he speaks again. "Is that all you wanted to discuss, Princess?"

She tries to make her nose give up its quest to determine what makes his scent so interesting to her. She nods her head and smiles. "Yes, I just wanted to make sure you knew how much I appreciated all your help."

As she speaks, she bows slightly, her nose begging for another whiff of him. It disgusts her that she is actively trying to smell him. It's a very warm scent, probably some cologne. It envelops her, making her slightly dizzy. He must have put some on before they dined that evening. She lets the heat of the fragrance course through her.

He shuffles over slightly and leans again on the rail. He is now within a few inches, his hand gripping the railing beside hers. He looks at her sadly, his eyes seeking her own. She can barely understand him, the intoxicating scent of him slowing her ability to concentrate. "You look as if you're never going to see me again. I promise you I'm not going to run off tomorrow. I'll be with you. We all will."

His assurances calm her, but not entirely. It is very possible that tomorrow would only bring the scent of death. "I know that. But it does feel like the calm before the storm, does it not?"

He considers her words, and she lets the fragrance settle around her.

* * *

It is maddening to be this close. He supposes his moving mere inches away from her was not a wholly unconscious act. Though he never considered himself to be all that sensitive to smell, something in the air was grasping for him.

Traveling with a Viera let his own sense dull. He relied on her nose to detect danger or give him a knowing look when a lovely young woman was approaching them at the bar during some respite from treasure hunting. But everything seems heightened in the night air, the sense of something greater than two companions standing on a balcony. Greater than a Princess and a pirate. Greater than a man and a woman.

Her scent is something that gets under his skin. She drifts around him, a distant rose garden. Not sickeningly sweet, but a warmth and a lush quality that he simply cannot pinpoint. He wonders if it is perfume or just a natural aroma that is hers alone.

He inhales, trying to let the fragrance fill him. Like a rose garden, there are thorns. There is the sense of something forbidden. She is a Princess, not some tavern girl or airship hostess. To smell her is to breathe in something rare, uncommon. He grins inwardly. It was as if she was some relic in an undiscovered treasure horde, waiting for him to discover and claim her. The scent was the bait, the treasure map directing him to the secret places within.

He is utterly distracted now. She said something, but all he knows are roses. "I'm sure things will have a way of working themselves out tomorrow," he offers, trying to be supportive.

She looks at him, a strand of hair falling in front of her eyes. "And if they don't?" she inquires.

It tumbles out before he has a chance to keep it back. "I suppose I'd want to make the most of the time I have left." Could she smell it? The shift in the air?

"Do something spontaneous you mean?" she replies quietly. The scent has led him directly to the inner sanctum, the last stop before the unknown. The fragrance makes him lightheaded, not himself.

"You could say that." Every alarm bell in his mind begins jangling. Abandon ship, they tell him. She's standing so damn close. Focus.

She surprises him by threading her fingers through his.


	4. Touch

The first time he touched her it had been to restrain her. They were in the sewers, surrounded on all sides. She had wanted to continue fighting, and he had held her back. His fingers had been insistent on her wrist. _Hang on a minute_, the fingers demanded.

This time she is the one reaching out. Not to hold back, but simply to hold this time around. She expects him to recoil like one of his guns, kicking back and away from her before they take things some place they might regret. But instead he squeezes back.

He turns her hand over so her palm is facing upwards. He scrutinizes it, saying nothing as he begins to trace his fingers over the lines writ across its surface. She remembers an old woman who visited Dalmasca when she was a young girl. A teller of fortunes, the woman had examined her lifeline. Now he was letting his fingers flit across her palm in the same manner. What was he trying to find?

His touch is light as his fingers drift about, settling on a roughened callus at the base of her thumb. He takes his own thumb and rubs it across the toughened skin. Maybe he is trying to smooth it out by sheer willpower.

"When you are Queen, your skin will be perfect again." It's almost a whisper as his fingers slide down to dance across her wrist. Her heartbeat quickens at his delicate touch.

"No more sword fighting. You'll look back on all this as a rather unpleasant time in your life." She considers his words as his fingers continue their way up her arm. She can feel the thin hairs on her arm stand on end, and she tries to resist a shiver of pleasure at the methodical way he touches her. The strong fingers that tinker with the Strahl's dials. The fingers that pull his shotgun's trigger.

The inside of her elbow tickles, and as he brings his thumb across the soft skin she jerks away unconsciously. His hand drops away. "I'm sorry."

He shakes his head ruefully and turns to reenter the manse. She hasn't gotten her chance yet. She only means to hold his hand, but she tugs a bit too insistently, and suddenly her arms are wrapped around him, her cheek pressed against his chest.

* * *

She had stumbled in the sand. She almost seemed to resent the assistance he offered, the thin, graceful fingers pulling away from his touch as if she had been burnt. He had not touched her since then.

Now she has her arms around him, her hands insistently pressed against his back. He wasn't used to Her Majesty in need of an embrace. She was always stoic, hands on hips, lips pressed into a frown. But she clung to him now as if he would vanish if she wasn't touching him.

He almost thought he'd gone too far by letting his fingers move up the length of her arm. But now he allows one hand to rest at the base of her spine. The other tangles in her hair, holding her head against him. He tries not to think too much about what this all means. It's been a long, hard journey. All of them could use some measure of comfort.

He feels her relax, her fingers beginning to flutter across the clasps at the back of his vest. He senses a genuine curiosity in her touch as she lets her fingers trace the circular metal pieces. He closes his eyes as she snuggles closer, her head resting near his heart. He wonders if she can hear how fast it beats away in his chest.

Her flaxen hair is soft, and he rubs a few strands in between his thumb and fingers, committing its texture to memory. He lets his other hand rub her back soothingly. He lowers his lips to the side of her head. "Is this alright?"

Her head bobs slightly against him, and he takes it as an assent. He figures he'd be getting a good slap across his face were she displeased. He wonders when this woman last received an embrace. The wheels in his head begin turning, the more devilish side of him getting involved as well. He wonders when this woman last received…

A nearly imperceptible pop followed by a muttered curse. She has accidentally undone one of the clasps on his vest, and he smiles at the many ways he could tease her right now. He keeps them to himself as he feels her fingers struggle to redo the clasp, a gentle pull on the metal pieces growing to a more insistent tugging. Her body tenses in disappointment, and he can tell she is upset for ruining the moment. Her determination only endears her to him.

He places his hands on her shoulders and pushes her back. He shakes his head and chuckles softly as she lets her hands drop down to her sides, and they shake with her frustration. Her head lowers shamefully. "If you'll turn around," she mutters, her voice trembling, "I can redo it properly."

He pulls her shaking hands in between his own, bringing them up to hold against his chest. Although they are strong hands, they feel so small and delicate. He would never tell her that out loud. "Don't worry about it."

Her eyes focus on their hands clasped together, her breath unsteady as he can almost hear her mind grinding to a halt. He loosens his grip, letting one hand hold both of hers while his other reaches for her face. He sees her eyes widen as he pulls her chin up to meet his gaze.

Her eyes flutter shut as his lips brush softly against her forehead.


	5. Taste

Her eyes are shut as she first feels the contact. There is a softness to his lips that she would not have expected. She feels her hands sweating as he holds them, and she wishes she could relax. But it is impossible as his lips drift over to gently kiss her temple.

He doesn't break contact with her skin at all, a light amount of stubble grazing against her cheek as he continues his exploration of her face. Several slow, tender pecks on her cheek, and he turns her head so he can attend to her other cheek in the same manner.

She is surprised by how patient and thorough he is. But she supposes that he is well-versed in these sorts of activities, man of the world that he is. As his lips brush just beside her own, she turns to meet him, to taste him as he tastes her. She feels him grin against her, and he withdraws from that area, denying her.

He instead tilts her head again, and he visits her jaw line, trailing small, delicate kisses all the way to her ear. His lips move down to her neck, and he lets himself linger at her pulse. She feels his tongue dart out to taste her skin, and she releases a shuddering breath she didn't know she was holding.

His hand tightens around both of hers at the release of her breath, and she can feel his lips tremble against the softness of her neck. She has not been kissed in two years. He has to know that, and she imagines that it is the greatest temptation for him. He is the only one she has allowed to get this close in all this time.

It is as if she is being kissed for the very first time. For someone obsessed with treasure, she is astonished with how long he is taking to claim her lips. He is marking her instead, planting a claim on her forehead, her cheeks, her neck. I was here, his lips insist. And here…and here.

Her frustration increases. He moves his hand to the back of her head, resting it against the nape of her neck. He leans forward now, and she can just feel his mouth hovering in front of hers. His breath comes out in short little bursts, small puffs that brush against her lips to tease her. Why won't he just do it? She needs to learn the flavor of a pirate's lips.

She feels like she is experiencing sensory overload. His quickened breathing, the scent of him surrounding her, the feeling of his fingers caressing the skin of her neck. His lips touch the corner of her mouth, and she is barely conscious of the whimper she releases at the contact.

"Balthier…"

* * *

He feels drunk with the taste of her skin. He doesn't know exactly why he is being so deliberately slow, but he wants to pat himself on the back for doing so. He gets to savor the softness of her face, and he feels ashamed for going without a shave that day. He doesn't want to scrape the delicate flesh.

He hears his name, and he lets the syllables drift into his ears. Never before has his name rolled off a maiden's tongue with such desire, and he would never have believed her capable of such a plea. She moaned it so tenderly, but the royalty within her was still detectable. You _will_ kiss me, he understood.

He decides to fulfill her request. He moves his lips just a fraction to the left to finally meet hers. If her face and neck were the appetizers, this is the main course. Her lips are unbelievably supple, and he almost feels guilty for tainting that softness. But not guilty enough.

The first few moments are gentle as they get used to the contact. He releases her hands, and she wraps her arms around his neck. She tastes faintly like some tart fruit, and he recalls the wine the party shared over dinner. He wants more, and he decides to finally end this dawdling.

He lets the tip of his tongue run along her bottom lip, humbly requesting entrance to the rest of her mouth. He is like a courtier awaiting an audience, and he wonders if this is what it would always be like if he remained in her life. She grants his request, letting him enjoy more of the taste of her.

When her tongue finds his, it sends a jolt through him, and he finds himself losing control. There is a rumbling sound deep within his throat, a low moan that catches him off guard. He is usually so collected, but exploring the depths of her mouth has unsettled him. They become more frantic, clutching at one another. The gentleness gives way to aggression as he presses his lips onto hers so hard he feels he may bruise her. She responds in kind, pushing forward against him. If he's not careful, she could probably knock him down. Some part of him would enjoy that.

A sharp breeze drifts in from the sea. He finally breaks the contact first when he has trouble catching his breath. A soft sigh of disappointment emerges from her as he leans back, and he is mesmerized by the swollen appearance of her lips, knowing that he is the cause.

She tries to kiss him again, but he stays her with a hand to her face. "Princess," he breathes, "I believe that's as much spontaneity as I can handle." Anything more and he knows he would start fumbling around with her clothing, and that is not something they need to do out here on this balcony. He wants her badly, and he can tell by the flushed look in her face that she wants him too. But they cannot.

It seems to register with her, and she releases her hold on him. She looks into his eyes, and he can detect the slightest trace of a satisfied grin on her face. "Oh?" she purrs seductively. She reaches behind him and lets her fingers flutter across the back of his vest again. She purposefully unsnaps another clasp. "I thought you wanted to make the most of the time you have left." Another is undone, the vest loosening around his body.

Don't do this to me, woman, he thinks. He is astounded by the mischievous look she gives him. They cannot. They should not. But if they die tomorrow?

He decides to take a leap of faith, extending his hand to her. She takes it without uttering a sound, and he leads her back into the manse. They ascend the stairs, and he guides her into his room. She undoes the last metal clasp, and he forces his lips onto hers roughly. There is a roar in his ears, and his vision seems blurred. All his senses are tingling with the taste of her. Let the world throw whatever it liked at him tomorrow. Right now he had all he needed.


End file.
